


In John and Sherlock Reminisce

by thequeergiraffe



Series: The Spaces In-between [22]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: I'd call this a love story, M/M, Sherlock and John in their fifties, shameless fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-08
Updated: 2012-04-08
Packaged: 2017-11-03 07:10:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/378687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequeergiraffe/pseuds/thequeergiraffe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's still so beautiful, those arrogant features made no less proud or dignified with age. I remember when he first started getting those threads of silver in his dark curls, how nonchalant he pretended to be (and yet I saw him pluck them out with a grimace more than once, unbeknownst to the great detective himself that I was watching).</p><p>"What are you thinking about?" he asks, that deep voice still rough with sleep.</p><p>"The moment I realized," I say, because it's suddenly true. I don't have to say what it is I realized; we both know. The corner of his mouth lifts fractionally.<br/>---------------------------------------------------------</p><p>(Can be read as a standalone.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	In John and Sherlock Reminisce

_John:_

I stumble out of the bedroom, simultaneously stretching and stifling a yawn with my fist, to find Sherlock already awake and perched at the kitchen table, tinkering with something small and electronic. (I know I'm getting old and- much to my chagrin- I'm starting to get lost on electronics, but Sherlock's still light-years ahead of everyone else including, I'd be willing to bet, those bastard kids that hang around the entrance to the Baker Street tube station. Christ, I sound crotchety. Right, forget all that. Moving on.) I feel good today, thank God. A little stiff, especially in the shoulder, but nothing that I can't handle.

I squeeze Sherlock's shoulder as I pass him on the way to the coffee and as it begins to brew I turn to watch what he's doing, only to find that  _he's_ watching  _me_. And suddenly it doesn't matter that we've been together for years, doesn't matter that we made love last night or that I'm wearing his bathrobe (and  _only_  his bathrobe) as we speak…I'm transported back in time, to the day we meet. His scrutinizing gaze never fails to bring a flush to my face. I try to itemize myself the way he might do: pillowcase creases across the right cheek; sleep-rumpled hair that's now more ash than dishwater; stiff shoulder; small smile; shining eyes. I bore of myself quickly and instead examine Sherlock, cataloguing him the way I imagine he catalogues me.

I never, ever bore of Sherlock.

He's still so beautiful, those arrogant features made no less proud or dignified with age. I remember when he first started getting those threads of silver in his dark curls, how nonchalant he pretended to be (and yet I saw him pluck them out with a grimace more than once, unbeknownst to the great detective himself that I was watching).

"What are you thinking about?" he asks, that deep voice still rough with sleep.

"The moment I realized," I say, because it's suddenly true. I don't have to say what it is I realized; we both know. The corner of his mouth lifts fractionally.

I pass him his mug and plant a small kiss on his lips before falling into the seat beside him, dragging the remains of the newspaper (he's clipped a few articles out, despite the fact that I've asked him no less than two hundred times to wait until I've read it to do so) over and flipping through them idly. There's something about a kidnapping in Switzerland; the report is vague but the feel of it seems right, seems like it might be up our alley, so I reread the article more carefully.

"Baskerville," Sherlock says suddenly. I look up, into his pale eyes, and give a tiny nod. I never told him that- that I first realized I loved him the night he told me we weren't even friends, our first night at Dartmoor- but he knew, somehow. I can't say I'm surprised.

I lick my lips and consider carefully; when did Sherlock realize he loved me? "The rooftop," I say softly. I don't like to talk about that, about the awful span of time when I thought Sherlock had left me for good, but I think it's right. I think that's when Sherlock knew. When he was saying goodbye.

Surprisingly, he shakes his head and takes a long sip from his mug. "The pool," he breezes, as if this isn't an astounding revelation.

"The pool?" My eyebrows must be touching my hairline, they're raised so high. "That soon?"

"Mm." He's gone back to tinkering with his gadget, a tiny screwdriver poised between thumb and forefinger. "Well, I had an inkling when I figured out you'd shot the cabbie. But the data felt insufficient. By the time you stepped out of the changing room at the pool…yes, I was sure."

"Sherlock," I breathe. "The cabbie…God, that was, what? My first night at Baker Street?"

He doesn't look up, but there's a hint of a smile on his face as he mutters, "Any imbecile could have observed it. We were a good fit."

"Still are," I grin, elbowing him gently. More seriously, I wonder, "Why did it take us so long?"

When Sherlock looks up at me, he's smiling: wide and genuine. "Because we're idiots."


End file.
